


Soul Love

by Juul



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soul Bond, Wincest Big Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 17:25:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8498785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juul/pseuds/Juul
Summary: Summary Your soulmate’s name is branded on your wrist the moment you turn 18. Dean feels like a pervert, because his soulmate is his little brother. Ashamed and terrified, Dean will try anything to make sure the bond isn’t reciprocated. He forgets, for a second, that you can’t mess with destiny.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Soul Love  
>  **Author:** @hastendownthewinchesters  
>  **Artist:** @daemonrose  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Warnings:** Underage  
>  **Word Count:** 10.106  
>  **Beta:** my amazingly supportive friend @minxchester  
>  **Notes** Written for the Wincest Big Bang 2016  
>  I got the idea for this fic when I was writing head canons for the second Wincest Love Week. You can find those head canons here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5951611/chapters/13680040

**January 24th 1997**  
Dean was looking at the fluorescent green numbers on the digital alarm clock, mentally counting down the seconds. 11:59:56, 11:59:57, 11:59:58, 11:59:59, 00:00. His wrist was already bared, and as soon as the numbers changed, he looked down at it. He felt a burning sensation, like someone was etching the name into his exposed skin. The name, what was it? He couldn’t quite make it out yet. He squinted in the soft lamplight, tried to breathe slowly and stay calm, and then suddenly the writing became clear[,] and calm flew out the window.  
The inside of Dean’s wrist said “Sam Winchester” in neat, familiar, loopy script. It was exactly the same scrawl that always added ‘strawberry pop tarts’ to Dean’s grocery lists, no matter how broke they were.  
Dean had turned eighteen thirty seconds ago. As promised, the name of his soulmate had appeared on his wrist at exactly that moment. His soulmate was his brother. There was a loud knock on the door and an excited yelp.  
“Who is it, Dean? Who is it? Can I come in yet? Please?”  
Dean hastily yanked his sleeve down and murmured “Yeah,” in a grave tone.  
The door flew open. “Who is it, Dean? Who is it?”  
Dean didn’t have to feign the tears in his voice when he said: “The writing’s not red anymore, Sammy, whoever it is is already dead.”  
Sam gave him a pained look, but Dean wasn’t paying attention. The knowledge that he was exactly as much of a sick fuck as he’d always feared, that the evidence of it was branded on his skin, was eating away at him. He had four years to figure out what to do.  
He looked at Sam and begged him: “Please leave me alone.”  
*************************************************  
 **January 25th 1997**  
Of course, Sam didn’t leave it alone. As Dean was driving him to school the next morning, he asked:  
“What was her name?”  
Dean didn’t answer. He tightened his grip on the wheel.   
“Dean?” Sam sighed. “Dean, I’m really, really sorry about this. But we could at least google her. Or something.”  
“Google her?” Dean almost laughed. “You think it would get better if I knew what she looked like?”  
Silence filled the car until Dean pulled up at George Washington Middle School.  
He watched Sam’s back as he walked towards the gates, then put the car into gear and drove to the library. He needed to make a plan.  
*********************************************  
Dean himself was royally fucked, that much was obvious. He could kiss happiness goodbye. He knew, now, that what he felt for Sam was the truest love he’d ever feel, and there was no getting past that. It didn’t necessarily mean that there was no saving Sam, though. Soul bonds being one-sided was rare, but it was not unheard of. A little shaky, Dean started grabbing books off the ugly, plastic shelves. Anything that had to do with soul bonding was worth a try.  
Behind a desk near the entrance there was a woman with red hair and a severe expression. Her eyes softened as she noticed Dean, nervously leafing through pages in the mating section. It looked like she was going to get up to approach him, and Dean quickly walked around to another shelf. Local history.  
Unfortunately, the lady wasn’t fooled. She hadn’t sat back down. All Dean had to be grateful for was that the room, besides the two of them, was deserted.  
“How old are you, dear?” her voice was gentle.  
Dean said nothing.  
“Turning eighteen soon? Or just had your birthday, maybe?”  
Dean said nothing and turned his face away. The lady didn’t take the hint.  
“It’s nothing to worry about, dear. I didn’t meet my husband until I was thirty years old.” She sounded wistful about it. It was supposed to reassure him: even if you don’t know yet who this person is, you will cross paths eventually. But crossing paths wasn't what Dean was worried about.   
“Is it…” now she seemed to be aware that she was being nosy. “Is it…black?”  
“It isn’t black,” Dean bit out. He thought it would have been better to have black writing. Better a dead soulmate than one that’s your brother.   
Still, the lady didn’t leave. Dean sighed. Okay then.  
“Is it always romantic? The bond?”  
She looked at him oddly. “Well, yes. Why wouldn’t it be?” Then something seemed to click within her. “Oh. Is it a boy, dear?”  
This made Dean laugh. If only he were just having a run of the mill sexual identity crisis. “Yeah,” he told her. “It’s a boy.”  
He didn’t check out any books, for fear that Dad or even Sam would find them. He didn’t say goodbye to the lady, who had been nothing but kind and helpful. He just stormed out and stood, for quite some time, crying in the parking lot.  
*********************************************  
If you fell in love, if you really, truly fell in love before your eighteenth birthday, then you got to pick your person. Not that you get to pick who you fall in love with, of course, but whoever you were in love with at that moment would be written on your wrist. So it was a confirmation that your feelings were real, that you and your partner were compatible.  
That’s what had happened to Dean. He loved Sam. First, he thought everybody loved their brothers and sisters like that, like you would die or kill for them. Not that dying or killing was anything to write home about in the Winchester family. Dean had gotten in trouble more than once for beating up bullies in Sam’s class. He’d often gone hungry to see Sam’s face light up as he took just a few extra bites of mac and cheese. He had stayed up nights to make sure Sam’s fevers didn’t run too high, and his homework never got too overwhelming. Dean was only alive when he had Sam to take care of, and it had always been like that.  
Then, somewhere along the way, Dean had stopped looking at girls. He wasn’t actually sure he’d ever really started. Of course, there had been kissing teens with pink lipgloss under the bleachers, and groping the occasional waitress in the bathroom of a diner, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that he’d swagger back to the motel room, grinning broadly and smelling of beer, with his collar unbuttoned so that Dad could see the hickeys and hit him upside the head for staying out late. It was what a Winchester was supposed to do, after all.  
At the end of the night he’d always crawl into the twin bed next to Sam and sling one arm over his slender waist, pull him close and breathe in the smell of home. Sam was so small still, and so sweet, and he desperately needed Dean to protect him. So Dean did. He tried to tell himself he was being a good older brother, but in truth he was being selfish: Dean was nothing without Sam.   
As Dean turned fourteen and then fifteen, and as Sam turned ten and then eleven, Dad started booking them separate beds. Being economical was one thing, but boys of their age always sleeping together simply wasn’t right. Dean lost a lot of sleep in those years. He waited until he heard Dad snore, which could take a while, and then he snuck into bed with Sam. He’d leave the curtain open a little so the first rays of sun would wake him, and he could be back in his “own” bed before Dad woke up.  
This was also around the time that Sam started complaining. Not about their lifestyle yet, no, that came later. If Sam complained it wasn’t because the beds were hard and itchy or the food was greasy and tough or the car was cold and drafty. He’d only complain to Dean, in those days, and even then only when they were on the cusp of sleeping.  
“I wish you didn’t go out all the time, De.”  
Dean was, for a moment, confused. “I’m literally _always_ with you, Sammy.”  
“No, you’re not. You go out in the evenings. You come home late.”  
“I wouldn’t say ten was late, exactly.” Dean was tensing up now. If Sam asked him to stay, he would stay. He would always, always stay. But would he be able to keep his secret?  
“Dad thinks ten is late,” Sam pointed out. “And I worry about you.”  
“You don’t need to worry about me.” Dean knew that was a useless thing to say. Sam always worried, especially when it came to Dean.   
“Okay,” said Sam in a tone that meant he wouldn’t stop worrying, probably ever. He sighed, turned over, snuggled closer to Dean. Both boys closed their eyes and Dean imagined the moment would never end.  
*********************************************  
Of course, it did end. The complacency and the comfort and the delusional idea that this was all okay and normal ended the moment Dean turned eighteen.   
Sam noticed a change in him. He had already noticed that morning in the car, but as Dean and he drove back from school in the afternoon, Dean was sure Sam was catching on.  
“Something’s wrong,” he said before Dean had even closed their front door.  
“Well, I was supposed to have a soulmate and she’s dead,” Dean tried to keep his tone even, but it didn’t work. His voice cracked a little, and Sam knew better than to press the issue.  
“Shall I cook?” he offered, a little awkward.  
Dean nodded gratefully and fell face first onto the bed. Not Sam’s. His own. He was never going to sleep in Sam’s bed again.   
“There’s pasta and tomato sauce somewhere,” Dean mumbled. He gazed into the dusty darkness of the pillow and definitely did not look at Sam. He was never going to look at Sam again, not really. He’d promised himself as much last night.  
*********************************************  
 **February 5th 1997**  
Miraculously, Sam gave him space at first. He didn’t comment the first night that Dean didn’t come to his bed. He didn’t comment the second night, either, or the third. He didn’t ask Dean why the hugs in the school parking lot had suddenly ceased, or why Dean was out much more often at night now, and stayed out until much later. He didn’t even complain when Dean smelled of booze and was hungover in the morning.  
It was Dad who commented.  
“Son,” his voice was heavy with whisky and sadness, and it startled Dean as he entered the dark motel room. Usually both Dad and Sam would be asleep when he got home this late.  
Dean walked softly towards Dad, gestured for them to step outside. He leaned against the outside of the door and explained: “I didn’t want to wake Sam.”  
John nodded. “Dean, what did the writing say?”  
 _Lie. It’s the only way to get out of this conversation. He’d kill you._  
“Her name was Clara,” he said softly. “Can we leave it at that? I don’t want to look for the family or anything. The writing was black.”  
Dad nodded. He didn’t say anything. Dean tugged at the leather cuff now covering the name on his wrist, and felt relieved his Dad had taught him to lie so well.  
“I’m sorry, son.”  
John’s face was mostly hidden in the shade, but Dean knew he was. Suddenly, in a flash, he could envision the black writing on his father’s wrist. Tidy and graceful, like everything about her: “Mary Campbell.”  
Dean swallowed and said: “I’m sorry too, Dad.”  
They went back inside. Sam woke up from their rustling, but didn’t tell them. None of the Winchesters got any sleep that night.  
*********************************************  
 **May 12th 1997**  
It was three more months before Dean mustered up the courage to set his plan into motion. Once more, they were in the Impala heading towards school. It was a different school this time, in a different town in a different state, and they were just pulling out of the parking lot of a different motel when Dean finally asked:  
“Hey Sam.”  
A beat of silence. _Come on, Winchester. Be a man._  
“Have you ever had a crush on anyone?”  
The moment he asked he knew it was wrong. Sam’s face turned roughly the color of a tomato and he turned his head away towards the passenger side window. He was silent, and Dean didn’t press the issue.There was time. Not much time, but there was some time. Dean prayed that it would be enough.  
Three days later, over steaming bowls of spicy chicken noodle soup, he asked again. There was more bravado in his voice this time, more of the teasing big brother.  
“So, who is it then?”  
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Huh?”  
“The crush. You turned all red and quiet the other day.”  
Sam didn’t meet his eyes. He stared down into the swirling noodles in his bowl and murmured: “No one.”  
Dean didn’t buy it for a second.  
“So, if you’re not going to tell me who it is, at least tell me one thing. Do you have a _type,_ Sammy?”  
He pulled it off. His delivery was just teasing enough to disguise his nerves.  
Sam snorted. “You’re so superficial, Dean.”  
It wasn’t true, but Dean didn’t protest.  
“Fine, yeah. I have a _type._ My type is funny and smart and kind.”  
Dean forced a laugh. _He wasn’t smart. That’s the ballgame._ Yeah, but like, what about looks? Brown hair or blonde? Or ooh, Sammy, what about redheads? And are you a boobs man or an ass man?”  
Sam muttered: “You’re disgusting,” and turned his attention back to his dinner.  
Yeah, Dean thought. Sam was right about that.  
*********************************************  
They had just turned a rugaru into a pile of ashes in Wisconsin and Dean waited until Sam was done washing the grime off his skin before asking: “You think you could ever date someone who wasn’t a hunter?”  
Sam, in his blue striped pajamas, looked at Dean a little funny. “Was she a hunter, your mate?” he asked softly. “Did she die on the job?”  
“I don’t know,” Dean said. Maybe the easiest way to get Sam to share was by sharing some of his own thoughts. Not the real ones, but Dean was confident in his ability to lie.  
“I wonder if she was,” he went on. “Balance of probability is she was around my age. It’s not right for someone to die that young.” The pained expression on his face wasn't feigned. Imagine Sam dying, and it’s not hard to look miserable.  
“No,” Sam agreed. “But it could have been a normal accident. Or an illness, or, I don’t know.”  
Dean, who was now imagining all manner of disasters that could befall his actual soulmate, the slender boy sat on the bed across from him, held up one hand to make Sam shut up. Mercifully, he changed the subject.  
“I suppose it would be easier. If someone was in the life. Or at the very least, if they knew what was out there. It would save me an awful lot of explaining.”  
Dean nodded. He needed to find Sam a girl, and she should _know_ about them. That was not going to be an easy task.  
“But you would want to live in one place, right?” Dean asked. It wasn't really a question. They both know Sam daydreamed about settling down somewhere. He didn’t have the same restlessness in his blood that his father and his brother had.  
So Sam didn't answer for a while. Then, softly, he spoke.  
“I want to go to college.”  
It was like a bucket of ice water being dumped on Dean’s head. Of course. Of course Sam would want to get a degree. It made so much sense. It fit with everything Dean knew about his little brother. But it was a statement about the future, and Winchesters are in the habit of avoiding those. Even worse, it was an ominous promise. It said: one day, not too long from now, I’m going to leave. I’m going to leave _you._  
“Don’t tell Dad,” Sam added. Dean nodded and pulled the sheet over himself. The comforter didn't warm him one bit.  
*********************************************  
As Dean tossed and turned that night, his mind seemed to be torn in two. The deadline, the boundary in his mind had strengthened. Regardless of what happened, everything would change when Sam turned eighteen.  
He cursed himself for a fool. What had he been thinking? That he’d just pimp Sam out to some All-American sweetheart and go on living his life? There was no one else for him; everyone had writing on their wrist. The pain of it was too much to bear.  
The alternative was to spend his life with his little brother. Really spend it together. That idea gave Dean the kind of delirious feeling he only got when something was seriously fucked. It was the feeling you got from drugs, or when a monster was messing with your head. It was happiness, and Dean didn’t trust it one bit.  
He’d go to college with Sam. He’d follow him anywhere in the world. He’d change his name to something that wasn’t Winchester, or maybe Sam would change his, and that way no one would know.  
But Dean would know. He would always have to live with the secret. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe there were other options. He hoped he’d think of them in the morning.  
*********************************************  
 **April 22nd, 1998**  
“Who was that?”  
“Who was who?” Sam was blushing and his voice cracked a little, so Dean knew he was on to something.  
“That guy.”  
“What guy?”  
“C’mon, Sammy, you know the guy. The one you were bear-hugging when I came to pick you up.”  
Sam was so distracted that Dean managed to change the channel without him noticing. No more nature documentaries. _Die Hard_ was on.  
“Oh, that guy,” Sam said with fake nonchalance. “That’s Brady.”  
Dean rolled his eyes. “I don’t care about his name, genius. Who is he?”  
“A friend.”  
Dean scooted closer and elbowed Sam in the ribs. “So every time we go somewhere new and I ask you if you’re making friends yet, you’re just lying to me?”  
Sam sighed and tried to take back the remote.  
“I’m not lying Dean, fuck off. I don’t tell you _everything,_ you know?”  
That hurt a little. Dean didn’t press the issue any further.  
*********************************************  
 **April 24th 1998**

Sam was holding hands with the Brady guy. Sam was _holding hands_ with the Brady guy. They were quite a distance from the car, but Dean had sharp eyes and there was no mistaking it. They were two boys holding hands in the parking lot of a High School in Indiana. It was a miracle they weren’t being yelled at, or worse. But then Sam always knew how to take care of himself. He’d probably given some football player a wedgie on his first day or something.

When Sam spotted the Impala, he dropped Brady’s hand like a hot potato. Brady looked a little hurt until Sam leaned in, way too close, to whisper something in his ear. Brady nodded. The boys looked at each other for a second and then Sam started walking towards Dean, while Brady headed off in another direction.

When they had been sitting in the car for a few minutes, Dean said: “It fine with me, you know.”

Sam snorted, like a laugh without the amusement. “It’s fine with you, huh? Well, that’s great, Dean. Thank you ever so much for the stamp of approval.”

“Dude,” Dean muttered. The sarcasm was a recent addition to Sam’s how-to-be-a-difficult-teenager starter kit.

Dean didn’t say what he had been going to; that it was reckless to flaunt your homosexuality in a town like this. He was sure Sam already knew that, and that he didn’t care.

*********************************************  
 **April 25th 1998**  
This new information regarding Sam’s sexuality didn’t surprise Dean, per se. It made sense. After all, the universe seemed pretty convinced that Dean would be his perfect partner, and Dean was a guy himself.  
But it complicated matters. He had hoped for bisexuality, maybe, so that there were lots and lots of people he could set Sam up with before admitting defeat. That wasn’t likely to happen now. The Brady guy was a possibility, sure, but Dean didn’t _like_ him for some reason. He looked like a bit of a bore.

“So, are you ever going to let me meet Brady?”

It was over breakfast that Dean asked, and Sam was so surprised he got some scrambled egg up the wrong pipe.

After some teary-eyed, red-faced, coughing, he managed: “No.”

Exactly as Dean had been expecting. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not serious.”

Oh crap. He should have seen this coming. Sam was one of those destiny-believing sappy romantics. Dean tried very hard not to find that adorable. It didn’t work.

“Not serious? I’d say holding someone’s hand in public was pretty damn serious.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “He likes it.”

Oh. “Sammy,” Dean said cautiously, “you shouldn’t do anything you don’t feel comfortable with just because some random guy likes it.”

“Jesus, Dean. I was holding his hand, not sucking his cock.”

_Don’t picture it, Winchester. Do not picture your little brother on his knees._

“Okay, okay,” Dean cleared his throat. “But even if it’s not serious you can’t blame me for being curious.”

“Actually, I can,” Sam answered. “When was the last time you brought some girl home to meet Dad?”

He had a point. “But why would I?” Dean defended himself. “It’s not like their name was on my wrist or anything.”

Sam smirked at him. “Exactly. So why would _I_ bother?”

One-nil for Sam Winchester.

*********************************************  
 **September 12th, 1987**

They were in Minnesota and it was cold. Dean was wearing a pair of dark blue mittens. He liked them. They had a penguin on the back. Sam, who was still so small and so sweet and who sucked his thumb in the night, was huddled close to Dean in the backseat of the car. Both were wearing almost all of the available clothes, including some of Dad’s which were way too big on either of them. Whenever the electric doors to the Emergency Room opened, Dean would pull at Sam until they were lying flat on the backseat, side by side, and invisible to whoever was at the hospital.

It was what Dad had instructed. Stay in the car, keep warm, stay out of sight. Most importantly: wait. Just wait and wait and wait until Dad came back. They had to turn of the heating in the car to save the battery, and all the clothes they owned offered little protection from the cold. Dean watched as the clock moved, ever so slowly, and prayed that Sam would stop crying and fall asleep, just for a little while.

“De?” Sam got his attention by tugging softly at Dean’s scarf.

“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean was so tired, and he was so cold. But he wouldn’t sleep. Not even if Sam did. Someone needed to keep an eye out and tonight that job fell on him.

“Is Dad going to be okay?” His speech was a little slurred, with tiredness or chill Dean couldn’t be sure.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean said, as he pulled Sam a little closer. “I’ll always take care of you, you know that, right?” Sam nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world but he didn't seem quite reassured. A little frown was wrinkling his forehead. Dean sighed. “Sam, I promise you, Dad’s going to be fine.”

And all through the night, Dean prayed that he could keep his promise.

*********************************************  
 **July 28th, 1998**  
Dean made a point of always wearing his cuff. It was made of leather so dark brown it was almost black, engraved with protective symbols in almost every writing known to man, and it covered the name scribbled on the inside of his wrist.  
But when it was the middle of the summer in Florida, once, just once, he took it off to take a swim. Maybe the relentless rays of the sun had melted his brain or something, because it was an incredibly stupid thing to do. But he wasn’t wearing it and just as he stretched out both arms and dived into the sea, he heard Sam give an indignant yelp.  
When Dean resurfaced, casually floating with his hands folded behind his head, he gave Sam a lazy, questioning gaze. The kind of gaze that said: “I am a way better swimmer than you, and way better looking, and you’re just a string bean.” It’s the way Dean has been looking at Sam a lot these days and it’s a complete lie.  
But Sam’s expression wasn't vaguely annoyed this time, like it usually was in response to Dean being a cocky asshole. His eyes were big and he looked dead serious.  
“I saw something red on your wrist.”  
Dean panicked, lost his balance and went underwater. When he came up, salt water up his nose and in his lungs, he desperately kicked at Sam to keep him at a distance and made his way back to the beach.  
As soon as he’d clasped on his cuff he went looking for Sam, and when he spotted him it was like a punch to the gut. Sam’s nose was bleeding. Probably the water was thinning out the blood and making it look way worse than it was, but it looked terrible. Salt water in the wound probably stung like a son of a bitch, too.  
“What the fuck!?” Sam yelled, slowly making his way out of the water. “Dean, what the actual fuck?”  
Dean apologized and apologized and used his t-shirt to stop the bleeding and bought Sam a huge ice cream sundae with sprinkles, but the damage had already been done: Sam knew, now, that Dean was hiding something from him.   
*********************************************  
 **October 3rd, 1998**  
Sam was like an ambush predator. He bided his time.  
“Gotcha!” Dean had Sam pinned to the mat they’d spread out between the trees behind this month’s motel. It was in Tennessee and they were alone together. Dad’s instructions had been very clear. He wanted them to do their drills, to run their laps and to practice their sparring. So Dean, heavy with dread and nauseated with the _wrong_ kind of excitement, was wrestling Sam to the ground over and over again. Sam lay panting and writhing beneath him. Dean let go of his slender, unmarred wrists first, then dismounted.  
“C’mon, Sammy. You can do better than that, surely?”  
Sam grunted and wiped his brow. Dean tried to keep their spirits up.  
“Go again?”  
“No Dean,” Sam was a little out of breath, but his tone brokered no argument. “I’m done.”  
Dean felt something twist uncomfortably in his gut but he just shrugged. “We’ll start again tomorrow.”  
“No,” said Sam, annoyed already, like he was gearing up for a fight. “We won’t.”  
Dean followed his brother back to their room, catching up with long strides.  
“Yes we will,” he insisted. “Why wouldn’t we?”  
“Because I don’t want to.”  
Christ. Dean went to take a shower and left Sam to ruminate behind the tv for a while. He tried not to think about their close proximity making Sam uncomfortable. He tried not to think of his own discomfort, and whether Sam’s was the same.  
*********************************************  
Later, as he was unpacking burgers and fries from plastic bags with the name of the local diner on them, Dean asked: “Why not?”  
Sam didn’t need clarification. “I just don’t want to. Isn’t that reason enough?”  
“For me, sure,” Dean lied. “But I don’t think Dad’s going to be too happy.”  
“I don’t give a fuck about Dad.”  
“ _Sam._ ”  
But Sam didn’t take his words back or apologize. He started eating the fries, nibbling at them one by one like a picky rodent.  
“Why won’t you tell me who it is, Dean?”  
Dean was so startled by the question that he dropped his burger. The tomato slid off the patty to the floor with a wet splatter. “Drop it, Sam,” he said, crouching under the table to clean up his mess. To clean up the part of his mess that could be cleaned up, at least.  
“No, I won’t drop it. You completely freaked when I didn’t tell you about Brady, but you won’t say a word about this?”  
“That’s right, I won’t,” said Dean, taking care not to meet Sam’s eyes. “She’s dead. It’s not exactly my favorite topic of conversation, you know?” Try as he might, Dean couldn’t muster up Sam’s signature biting sarcasm.   
“But she isn’t dead, is she?”  
Dean closed his eyes.  
“The writing was red. I saw it.”  
“No, the writing is black. She’s dead, Sam.”  
But neither of them believed it.  
*********************************************  
 **October 6th, 1998**   
Dad came back to Tennessee three days later, the proud new owner of three broken fingers and two Minotaur horns. They were smaller than Dean had imagined they would be, and sharper, and Dad told them he’d used a bone saw to detach them, after the monster was already dead, because the pattern of swirls on the horns of a Minotaur was said to ward you from evil. He gave one of the horns to Sam and one to Dean, and Sam immediately sat down at their rickety table to study the patterns and compare them to Sumerian writing.  
Before he went to sleep that night, Dean put the Minotaur horn in the side pocket of his duffel, where he kept all his stuff. There were two pairs of jeans and a handful of shirts and socks and boxers, all neatly folded. There was the amulet Sam had given him years back, and a single creased picture of Mary. For a few hours, Dean lay on the bed only two feet removed from Sam’s, every bone in his body aching with sadness and longing. Then he got up, very, very quietly, took his duffel and left the Tennessee border behind before sunrise.  
*********************************************  
 **October 7th, 1998**  
Dean had no problem hot-wiring a car and stealing a handful of creditcards. After that, it was easy as pie to keep himself fed and watered and take shelter in an unknown yet familiar motel room once he gets sick of sleeping in the car.  
After a few days, he called Dad from a payphone.  
He got about eight million years of verbal abuse before he could cut in with “Dad? Dad, I’m fine.”  
“That’s not the point, Dean, and you know it. The point is you could be dead and how would I know?”  
For a split second, Dean felt guilty. He thought of Mary, burning on the ceiling, and of himself, sneaking away like a thief in the night. He cleared his throat.   
“Point is, I’m fine.”  
“Well son, congratu-fucking-lations. Where the hell are you?”  
“Dunno,” Dean answered truthfully. “Somewhere in the midwest, I think.”  
John made a frustrated growling sound over the phone. “We’re still in Tennessee. Just come back right away and there won’t be any further repercussions.”  
Dean couldn't help it, he laughed. “Repercussions? Christ, Dad.”  
“Sam was worried sick about you,” said Dad, and Dean was a hairbreadth away from turning around in the direction of Memphis. “Can I put him on the phone for a second?”  
“No,” Dean managed. “I can’t talk to him.”  
For a moment, John covered the receiver with his hand and there was the muffled sound of an argument on the other side of the line. Then Dad was back.  
“Call me once in a while, will you? And Bobby, too?”  
“Yeah,” Dean said. He was about to hang up when Dad asked:  
“Is it about the writing, son?”  
Dean just said: “You’re writing is black too, Dad, and it’s kept you on the road for fifteen years.” Then he hung up the phone.  
*********************************************  
 **December 20th, 1998**  
Dean didn't rejoin Sam and John around Christmas. He called them a few days beforehand to tell them he wouldn't be there and he was pretty sure he heard Sam smash a few plates on the floor or something.  
Dad just sighed and said: “You gotta do what you gotta do.”  
Afterwards, Dean payed his motel room for the weeks ahead and didn’t move from the bed until it was 1999.  
*********************************************  
One day blurred into another, which blurred into the next. Bit by bit, the fibers of Dean’s heart and soul started unraveling, so that he sometimes forgot to lock his door or to shower or to eat. He thought, in a way, that Sam would appear to help him, if only he fucked up badly enough. But dreams and reality don’t really mix. That part was only in Dean’s head. And Sam didn’t come.  
January was cold, freezing cold, and Dean hated it. He drove south and hoped for sunshine to warm his bones, but it didn’t. The heat burned all the places that had been freezing until nothing was left but scorched pieces of him.  
Sometimes, Dean opened his phone to see two hundred and twenty-three missed calls. He kept the stupid thing on silent these days.  
In the mirror, he saw his eyes fade from staring into the sun and the dust of the road. He saw his cheeks slowly collapse inwards and he saw how his fingers shook when he handled a gun. Maybe, he thought, his soul had died. Maybe it was a monster. Maybe it was Sam, who had more power over him than any monster he’d ever encountered. Whatever it was, in the end Dean called Dad and they agreed to meet in Michigan.  
*********************************************  
 **April 30th, 1999**  
Suddenly, Dean pressed his foot against the accelerator with purpose, and he drove from Baton Rouge to Grand Rapids in a little under two days, with a brief layover in Marion, Illinois. He beat Dad and Sam to the agreed upon location, and tried to eat a few cheeseburgers so he’d look less like a consumptive.  
Just as Dean was trying to see how many fries he could fit in his mouth at once, the bell at the door clanged to announce some new customers. There was Sam. Dad was with him, obviously, but Dean couldn’t focus on that right now. The six months they’d been apart had treated Sam well. He’d shot up like a weed, his shoulders had gone broader and his jawline was sharper and more pronounced. Dean flushed. Meeting up with them had been a mistake.  
Suddenly not hungry, Dean unfolded a napkin and deposited the excess fries in it, hoping no one had noticed. He messed with his hair nervously, like a teenager on a date, and tried very hard not to stare as Sam came closer and closer with the hypnotic swing of his hips.  
“Dean!” his voice had gone lower, too. It was a thrilling sound.  
Sam leapt at him, scooting closer until he was pressed against Dean’s side in the booth. Dad sat across from them and smiled indulgently.  
“Good to see you, son.”  
“Good to see you, Dad.” He swallowed. “And Sammy,” he managed to tousle Sam’s hair in what he hoped was a casual way. _I love you._ he thought. _I love you so much that it hurts. How could I ever have left you?_  
Sam was looking at him, eyes big and round and still so much like a puppy’s. “I’m glad you came back before my birthday.”  
Sam’s sixteenth birthday was close. Too close. Of course, Dean hadn’t forgotten. Only two more years until the shit would hit the fan. He started to cry.  
It wasn’t full on sobbing or anything. Winchesters didn’t do that kind of thing. He looked down at his lap and let a few lonely tears fall. Sam pulled him closer. Dad didn’t comment. Mercifully, neither of them asked whether he’d found out anything about his dead soulmate.   
Dad and Sam ordered themselves some food and sat in silence until Dean had calmed down a bit. Sam was drawing little circles on Dean’s back and it was both helpful and not.   
The waiter that brought them Sam’s salad and Dad’s steak was tall and lanky, with unruly brown hair and dark eyes. He looked a bit like Sam, the way Sam would undoubtedly look in five years, kind and sharp and devastatingly handsome. Dean looked at him for a beat too long.  
Over dinner, Sam told Dean about the monsters they’d encountered lately, and how he, Sam, had singlehandedly slain a werewolf. Dean looked at Dad when he heard that, eyebrows raised. Dad just shrugged, and muttered: “You can’t baby him from the other side of the country, Dean.”  
Which was true, of course, but it still stung. Dean blinked furiously not to start crying again.  
*********************************************  
After the dishes had been cleared by the Sam-lookalike waiter, Dad declared he was going to check out the local speakeasy, to see if anyone knew anything about their case in the area; a ghoul.  
That left Dean and Sam alone in a motel room around nine at night, and it was everything Dean had been dreading and hoping for. Sam lay down next to him on the single bed, put a slender hand on Dean’s chest, and whispered:  
“It’s me, isn’t it, Dean?”

His breath was warm against Dean’s neck, and Dean felt himself tense all over. His muscles were already giving the truth away, but still he barked:

“She’s dead, Sam. Leave it the fuck alone.”

“ _She’s_ dead? So you weren’t checking out that waiter just now?” Sam was scooting closer and closer, and Dean couldn't _think._

“Leave it _the fuck alone_ , Sam.” Dean wanted to roll over, to get off the bed, to take a cold shower, but somehow he didn’t. It had been six months since they’d been together, after all.

“If it _is_ me, I just wish you’d told me sooner.”

“Goddamnit, Sam,” Dean made his eyes spit fire. It was something he’d been able to do since they were kids and it was usually enough to get Sam to back off and stop provoking him. Not now, though. This time, Sam is not to be deterred.

He leaned in ever closer, and Dean craned his neck away from Sam’s face but he could still smell him, and he smelled so nice and he smelled so much like home and Dean allowed himself a split second to relax into it and then Sam was kissing him.

It was heavenly. Dean worried a little that he’d gone insane, because this was Sam, his little brother, who would never do anything as fucked up as kissing his brother. Also, kissing shouldn’t be this good. Kissing had no right to feel this good because if it did, how did anyone ever manage to do anything else?

Dean was pressing ever closer to Sam, putting an arm around his waist and rolling half on top of him and biting gently at his lips and it was like a dream. And then, as Dean’s brain started floating up into seventh heaven, Sam snatched his cuff away and pulled Dean’s wrist close to his face.

It said _Sam Winchester._ Sam began to cry. “I knew it. I knew it. You fucking asshole.”

In a flash, Sam had locked himself into the bathroom. Dean pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw little twinkling lights behind his lids, and prayed to God that Dad would stay out late that night.  
*********************************************  
Dad stayed out late that night.  
Dean sat on the floor, with his back against the bathroom door, fingers plucking at the filthy carpet beneath him.  
“Sam?” his voice had gone a little rough from asking, over and over again: “Sam, please open the door? Sam, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Would you please open the door so we can talk?”  
But Sam didn't open the door. Dean could hear him cry, and throw up, and flush the toilet and cry a bit more. Dean waited. Nothing happened. When, eventually, Dean heard the Impala pull up, he crawled into the bed, still clothed, and hoped Dad would be too drunk to want a shower.  
Throughout the night, he could sometimes still hear Sam sobbing and he thought, maybe, that he should have stayed away. It would, perhaps, have been better than this. It would have been better than the broken sounds Sam was making now, sharp and venomous, cutting Dean’s flesh into little pieces from the inside out. Dean cried, too. He kept it quiet, so Sam wouldn’t have to hear. So Sam wouldn't hurt anymore than Dean had already made him hurt.  
In the morning, when Dean woke, Dad had gone out for coffee and breakfast and Sam had pleaded the flu, or so a note on the bathroom mirror told Dean.  
Sam was in his bed now, eyes closed and face pale and sickly, but he was definitely not asleep.  
“Hey,” Dean tried.  
Sam turned away and pulled his pillow over his ears and the message was clear, but Dean couldn’t handle anymore rejection. He never, ever meant to make Sam sad. Sam should know that.  
“Sam, listen,” he tried.  
With a jolt, Sam sat upright. “I’m fucking done listening to you, Dean. It makes me sick, it makes me sick to my stomach that you think I’m so useless you have to make decisions for the both of us.”  
Dean was so surprised, both by the words and their tone, that he fell off the edge of the bed. Sam laughed at him but there was no amusement in the sound.  
“That’s not what I…” he attempted to get up, but he felt clumsy. He hadn’t slept in a while.  
“Isn’t it? Because that was a very mature thing you did, Dean, _running away._ Fat lot of good it did us!”  
“But it would have,” Dean argued. “It would have worked out great if I’d been strong enough to stay away longer. It would have worked if I’d given you enough time to fall in love with someone else.”  
Sam screamed, then. Not in words, not in anything Dean recognized as language. He just opened his mouth and let out a long, frustrated howl. He threw the pillow at Dean’s face and yelled: “But I was in love with you all along, you absolutely insane idiot!”  
Dean’s ears were ringing from the noise. He must have heard that wrong.  
“You…what?”  
Sam let out another frustrated noise and left the room.   
Dean just sat there, looking at the ugly wallpaper, wondering whether anything ever is what you think it is.  
*********************************************  
When Sam came back, he was carrying a bazillion containers of food and there was still no sign of Dad.  
Dean had never been happier to see anyone in the world.  
“You’re in love with me?” Dean asked.  
Sam rolled his eyes and somehow the gesture made perfect sense. If everything changed between them now, if they became mushy and showy and romantic, they wouldn’t be Sam and Dean. But they were, so Sam rolled his eyes.  
As Sam was unpacking the food, Dean asked: “Kiss me again?”  
In a flash, Sam was on him. Sam was in his lap, and he was so slender and beautiful and he smelled so nice and his hair was so soft, and after a few swift kisses he pulled back to whisper:  
“Your lips Dean, oh my God.”  
Dean grinned. He knew about his lips. He’s heard those words before.  
“All for you, Sammy,” seemed like a fitting response.  
It made Sam grin, but he also said: “I’m still pissed at you.”  
“Okay,” Dean replied, and leaned in to kiss him again, more deeply. “But can we talk about it later?”  
*********************************************  
It’s later, but not so much later that they’re exactly talking yet, and Dean has got Sam spread out on the bed with his jeans pulled down around his ankles. Sam’s dark blue boxers are still on and there’s a wet patch in the fabric where Sam wants Dean to touch him so bad he can’t see straight.  
“Please,” he breathes. “C’mon, Dean, I’ve waited so long.”  
Dean is taking his sweet time sucking hickeys into Sam’s sharp hipbone, one hand reverently cupped around it. Sam’s so beautiful, so beautiful. Dean can hardly believe this is real.  
“I’ve waited just as long as you, baby boy. And I’m going to enjoy this.”  
Sam growls. “It’s all your fault we’ve had to wait this long.”  
Dean raises his eyebrows. “You sure now is the time to be sassy with me, Sammy?”  
Sam squeezes his eyes shut and his cock twitches in his boxers. “No, no, I take it back, c’mon.”  
Dean chuckles and pulls Sam’s boxers down a few inches so that his cock head is just peeking out of the waistband. It’s glistening and red and Dean presses his tongue against it firmly.  
“Ugh,” Sam’s whole body goes taut for a second, his fingers tensing and relaxing in the sheets.  
“Tell me what you want,” Dean whispers, his breath against Sam’s wet, sensitive skin.  
From one moment to the next, Sam’s embarrassment vanishes. He is no longer the blushing, bashful virgin. He’s gone insane with lust. “Suck my cock,” he demands. It’s not begging, it’s not submissive like before. Sam’s voice is rough and it sounds like a threat. So Dean obliges. He gulps down as much of Sam’s shaft as he can, throat bobbing up and down, and it takes Sam all of three seconds to come.  
*********************************************  
After their initial shy declarations of mutual devotion, Dean starts picking up business cards everywhere he goes. He takes them from each motel they stay at, every diner they eat from. He even takes them from the numerous police stations and hospitals they visit. If they stay somewhere that doesn’t have a business card, like Bobby’s place, he keeps every scrap of paper he can find. On the back of all them, he writes down something that happened at that particular place.

***********

After only a few months together, Dean has a shoebox full of torn off pieces of paper. There’s a business card from the Galaxy Diner in Flagstaff that says, in neat blue ballpoint pen: “This is the place where I flirted with the waitress, because Dad was there. Sam was pissed, so he practically started sucking off the straw in his milkshake. We had another three hours of driving to go after that little tease. I won’t be flirting with the waitress again.”

*******

On a flyer from the Cheesecake Factory: “In San Fran, dad took us to the Cheesecake Factory because we’d done well catching a werewolf. It was awesome. They give you these beepers that go off when a table becomes available and until then you can browse the whole Macy’s. It’s a girly store but I shoplifted a ring for Sammy. Later that night I proposed to Sam, kind of as a joke. But he said yes, and then it wasn’t a joke anymore. Best day of my life.”

******

On a business card from the Bean Cycle Cafe in Fort Collins, Colorado: “We had breakfast here this morning. Dad went off to hunt down the wendigo and Sammy just geeked out over Hobbit Street. I’m taking him to the university library in a minute.   
PS: Apparently, Sam thinks libraries are a great place to exchange hand jobs. Score!

*********************************************  
It’s hard for Dean, at first, to accept that the fantasy of the last two years has become reality, and that it’s perfectly fine to enjoy it. Hand jobs are fine, but Dean is always incredibly selfless in bed, incredibly gentle. Sam, who is used to bruises and teasing and rough edges from his brother, has soon has enough.  
“C’mon Dean, tell me what you want. You’ve had years to think about this.”  
Dean shakes his head, blushes, and looks away. Sam’s been trying to get him to spill dirty words almost since their fist kiss, but he can’t bring himself to oblige.  
“Years during which you were fourteen years old, Sam.”  
Sam raises his eyebrows. “Yeah. But I won’t always be fourteen. I’m already taller than you. How long do you think it’ll be before I can pin you to the bed and fuck you till you beg, big brother?”  
Dean groans. He looks quickly at the motel door, but Dad had said he’d be away for three days and that usually means a week, if not more.   
“Come on, Dean,” Sam goes on. “I know you have a filthy mouth. I heard you with the waitress in Wisconsin.”  
 _Fuck._ Dean had hooked up with the waitress in Wisconsin in the messy weeks directly following his 18th birthday, and he’d been more than a little fucked up at the time. He still wasn’t sure how to feel about that in retrospect, but it had been really goddamned good at the time.  
“Is it true?” Sam coaxes. “Is it true, what you said, that you’ve never fucked anyone in the ass before?”  
“Yes Sam,” Dean bites out. “Of course that’s true.” Suddenly he’s had enough. He needs Sam to be the one blushing and squirming, and he needs it right the fuck now. He pitches his voice extra low, makes it hoarse and dark, and says: “I’ve never fucked anyone in the ass. Do you want to know why?”  
“Why?” Sam squeaks.  
“Because no one ever had an ass as sweet as yours.”  
Sam keens, presses his palm against his crotch and makes little, stuttering movements with his hips.  
“Hands off,” Dean hisses. “You wanted a tease, now you’re going to get one.”  
Sam yanks his hand away from where he’s grinding against it, stuffs his fingers in his mouth to stifle the breathy noises he’s making.  
“Good boy, Sammy,” he murmurs. “Now, don’t touch, just listen.”  
Sam closes his eyes, as though Dean’s stare is quickly becoming too much for him. His hips are still moving against the empty air. Dean doesn’t order him to keep still; decides that he should work up to being a toppy asshole slowly. He feels a rush of power, thinks that if he just said: “hold still,” Sam would freeze.  
“I already _know_ your ass is the sweetest, baby,” he goes on. “But just to be sure I think I might have a taste.”  
Sam groans.  
“Would you like that? My mouth on your hole? I know how you feel about my mouth. I bet you would come just like that, cock twitching helplessly against your stomach.”  
“Dean,” Sam whispers. “Dean, please let me,”  
“No,” Dean says. “You’re going to wait, Sammy.”  
Sam honest-to-God whimpers.  
“So yeah, one day soon you can pin me to the bed and make me yours -open your fly-,” the last bit is an offhand remark, but Sam, whose attention is focussed on Dean entirely, does as he’s told and lets out a little sigh of relief when his hard-on suddenly gets room to breathe.  
“But until then you’re totally and completely _mine._  
Dean leans forward and takes Sam in his mouth. It’s over quickly, but Dean doesn’t mind. Every moment with Sam is precious.  
*********************************************  
 **April 2nd, 2001**  
As Sam’s eighteenth birthday approaches, Dean starts getting nervous. After all, there’s no guarantee Sam’s wrist will read _Dean Winchester._ Sam rolls his eyes at him when he brings it up, and whispers how much he loves him at night and whenever Dad isn’t paying attention, but still, Dean worries.  
He looks at the people they meet, the boys and girls around Sam’s age, and thinks that some of them are kinder than him, and smarter. Worst of all, he knows he’s right and Sam’s wrong: there are people far better suited to take care of Sam than Dean.  
Of course, Sam pays none of these people any attention. Sam looks at Dean like Dean hung the moon. But Dean can’t really see that. Dean can’t really understand _why._  
So it’s a nerve-wrecking countdown to May 2nd.  
 **May 2nd**  
Sam had asked Dean to stay with him, to please stay, but Dean had refused. If it suddenly said _Sally Smith_ on Sam’s skin, or some other wholesome, blonde cheerleader-type name, Dean didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want someone else’s name branded on Sam’s skin, and he didn’t want the image branded on his retinas, either. It would be too much.  
Dean thanked his lucky stars Dad was enough of an asshole to miss his son’s eighteenth birthday in favor of hunting down a nest of vampires. His current state of nervousness would be tough to explain.  
So when, at three seconds past twelve, Sam’s wobbly voice came from the other side of the bedroom door: “Come in, Dean,” for a second, Dean couldn’t get his body to move. His heart was in his throat and his muscles were heavy with dread. But when he didn’t come as quickly as Sam wanted, Sam ran towards him instead, tackled him down onto the carpet and kissed him open-mouthed.   
“Of course it’s you, you incredible idiot,” he breathed. Dean couldn’t kiss Sam for a while, because his mouth was too busy grinning. He grabbed Sam’s wrist and saw his own, messy handwriting there in blood red ink: “Dean Winchester.” And Dean Winchester was the happiest man in the world.  
He bent Sam in half, right there on the dirty carpet, pulled down his jeans and started groping at his ass. They had done this enough times by now that Sam knew to hold on to the backs of his knees and keep still. Keeping still was the only reliable way to get Dean to hurry up. Sam writhing and moaning and begging for it was what Dean loved most in the world, so unless Sam wanted to suffer hours of frustration, he should keep those things to a minimum. Usually he didn’t, because he loved the tease. Every second that Dean’s hands are on him, that Dean’s voice is meant only for his ears and that Dean’s attention is focused solely on him is like heaven to Sam. But not just then. Just then Sam was in a rush to get fucked.  
He handed Dean the lube he’d grabbed from the nightstand and Dean laughed.  
“You’re such a boyscout, Sammy.”  
Sam knew better than to argue. He just spread his legs, relaxed his breathing and _waited._   
*********************************************  
“D’you wanna leave?” Dean asks. They’re done, they’re wrapped around each other in the tiny bed, the comforter kicked to the floor because they were all sweaty and hot.  
Sam’s brain feels fuzzy, and he doesn’t know what Dean is talking about.  
“I mean,” Dean’s tracing small circles on the flat of Sam’s stomach and it’s electric. It’s distracting. Sam doesn’t tell him to stop.  
“Surely Dad’s going to ask to see your wrist,” he adds, and suddenly Sam understands.  
“Can I tell you something?” He’s afraid and his body grows tense. Dean notices and pulls him closer.   
“Anything, baby boy. Are you okay?”  
“Dean,” Sam lets his breath out with a long woosh. “I got accepted at Stanford.”  
Dean freezes.   
Nervously, Sam babbles on. “I applied on a whim, I mean, just to see if I could. And they accepted me, and it’s a full scholarship including housing and I looked into it and you can room with your soulmate, it doesn’t cost any extra.”  
Still, Dean doesn’t say anything.  
“It’s in California,” Sam goes on. “In Palo Alto.”  
In one swift movement, Dean gets off the bed and for a second Sam thinks this is it, everything is ruined, but then he sees Dean’s face. It looks like Christmas and the world’s best cheeseburger arrived at the same time and someone has just told him he can light some fireworks to celebrate the occasion. He looks happy, like Sam always, always wants to see him.  
“Stanford?” Dean’s voice has gone higher, like an overexcited little boy all over again, and Sam loves him so much and so fiercely that it aches in his chest.  
Sam nods.  
“Isn’t that, like, one of the best universities in the world?”  
“Kind of, yeah.” Sam looks at his feet, suddenly a little bashful. It’s not the Winchester University of Hunting, after all.  
“We’re going.” Dean says. “We’re going, and I love you, and I’m so fucking proud of you, Sammy.”  
Sam starts to cry because now he’s got everything he’s ever wanted and Dean holds him until he quiets down. Dean sheds some tears of his own because the beautiful boy in his arms is all his, but Sam doesn’t say anything about that.  
After a while, Dean is the one looking bashfully at his feet as he asks: “Hey Sam, d’you think I could get an engineering degree somewhere in Palo Alto?”  
Sam grins and grins and grins and starts crying all over again.  
 **Epilogue**  
“Sam, what the fuck is this?”  
Sam kept on scratching the dog behind his ridiculously long ear and met Dean’s gaze. His eyes were sparkling with mirth. Damn it, Dean was going to cave on this. He could already feel it in his gut.  
“What’s it look like, Dean?”  
“Well, it looks like a dog. But there’s no way that’s right since I distinctly remember us talking about it just a few months ago.”  
“Yeah,” Sam nodded. He was still grinning.  
“So?” Dean prompted. The dog disentangled himself from Sam and was cautiously approaching Dean now. Okay, so, yeah. He had a cute snout. Dean would take that observation to the grave.  
“So, we talked about how it would be impossible to keep a dog in the car. And how they’re not allowed on campus.”  
“Yes,” Dean said firmly. “What do you think _not allowed_ means, Sammy?”  
“Usually it means a good spanking.” Sam was looking him straight in the eye, unblinking. _Jesus._ He’d be the death of Dean.  
“I sincerely hope the people from university admin keep their hands to themselves,” Dean growled.  
Sam laughed out loud then. “My ass is all for you, baby.”  
Sam got off the bed and approached, hips swaggering in a hypnotic motion.  
“Sam. Sam, what about the dog?”  
“We’re moving this weekend, Dean. We won the bid on the High Street apartment.”  
The apartment was large, and they had been dreaming of it ever since they moved to Palo Alto. Best of all, it was close to the campus as well as the location of Dean’s part-time job: Heinichen’s Auto Repair.  
Before he allowed Dean to kiss him, Sam said: “The dog’s name is Cerberus, by the way.”  
 **THE END**

Playlist  
• Tears At The Birthday Party - Elvis Costello With Burt Bacharach  
• Soul Love - David Bowie  
• Mayor Of Simpleton - XTC  
• Hand In Hand - Elvis Costello  
• Hearts Of Stone - Southside Johnny And The Ashbury Jukes  
• Do I Wanna Know - The Arctic Monkeys  
• Blinded By The Light - Bruce Springsteen  
• The End Of The Innocence - Don Henley


End file.
